


whisper truce as the ashes hit the ground

by ok_but_first_tea



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Gen, Issues, canon suicide?, so many issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-30
Updated: 2020-03-30
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:26:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23394745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ok_but_first_tea/pseuds/ok_but_first_tea
Summary: The needle feels scratchy on his skin.  These symbols that claimed him all his life are his now. His skin, his property, his choice. All Gerry’s own.The lines form slowly. It’s a reminder as much as a statem- as much as a protest. A refusal to break, even if he can’t mend things. Even if he can’t make the eye go away. He will not become it’s favorite broken toy.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 12





	whisper truce as the ashes hit the ground

**Author's Note:**

> gerry doesn't have a gender but like, low-key. he also has Some Issues. happy quarantine everybody, remember to do Physical Exercise for Mental Health (there's just dance vids online).  
> Also my friend pointed out an app for your browser that makes all the text dislectic friendly and what do you know, it actually works. This is WAY better for writing, big recommend to everyone ever.  
> Title from Scars by Boy Epic.

Gerry drags himself into a semi-vertical position, limbs curling inward on reflex as he wakes up. One of the papers on his desk sticks to his cheek. He peels it off. 

It, regrettably, is morning. Or rather, it’s 4PM, but it’s always morning somewhere. Last night's music is still droning on, echoing in his skull. The noise makes it hard to think, though that was exactly what it was supposed to do last "night". He turns it off. 

Next to him a stack of paper falls over, dropping the badly balanced inkpot with it. The ink flows out onto the paper, absorbing their words into the growing dark black of ink. He represses a cringe and looks away. 

Downstairs he hears the shuffling of books and papers. He wishes he was someone who could still tell themself ghosts weren’t real. He wishes he could pretend it was a burglar, coming in to steal all the books that haunt his life. He wishes he would still care about any of that. 

Gerry lowers his head on the desk and goes back to sleep. 

* * *

It’s in a fit of gleeful drunken rage that he acquires his first set of tattoos- or alternatively, his second (and third) pair of eyes.    
If they want to watch him, fine.  _ Watch him _ . Watch all of him. See how he sets books on fire and makes bad choices. See how he stops people from becoming cosmic fish food. 

They can watch all of it. They can watch the same stupid meme over and over and over on his tiny phone screen, they can watch him jerk off at 5am, they can watch him lie for six consequtive hours to a police officer. 

He doesn’t give a shit. If they want to watch him, then _ watch him _ . Watch it all. 

The needle feels scratchy on his skin. These symbols that claimed him all his life are his now. His skin, his property, his choice. All Gerry’s own.    
The lines form slowly. It’s a reminder as much as a statem- as much as a protest. A refusal to break, even if he can’t mend things. Even if he can’t make the eye go away. He refuses to become it’s favorite broken toy.    
The room is filled with smoke and Gerry has a suspicion the person setting the tattoo is about as sober as he is (AKA not very). Still, nobody asks him anything, or seems to notice his manic smile, so it’s as close to perfect as he’s likely to get these days. To them he’s just a person, barely an adult, getting a bunch of bad-decision eye tattoos. A boy in a skirt with an empty bottle of eye-knows-what getting a probably unhygienic tattoo. There’s loads of kids making bad decisions. He fits right in. 

  
  


* * *

Cold clouds gather gently at Gerry’s feet. He can’t see them yet but he can feel them. 

It’s not hard to swallow the sour taste in his mouth. But then, it’s not hard to swallow down any feeling, leaving him with nothing but a sense of hollowness that fills his bones- making them heavy. 

And isn’t that fitting? For the Lonely to show up just as he’s gotten some peace from his mother. He went all this way to not have to deal with her and yet, without the pain she gives him, suddenly he’s empty. It can be awfully quiet with nothing to drown out. 

But no. No, this isn’t him, he sternly tells himself. He’s not falling for these thoughts that aren’t even his own. He can’t give his life that easily to just another fear god douchebag, not when the last one has taken nearly everything from him. 

He breathes out, forcing his lungs to surrender all air, and then breathes in again. He ends up buying the first hideously patterned shirt he sees. And that’s a reminder too.    
Gerry is on  _ vacation _ and he  _ will relax _ . 

* * *

He asks if she has a mother and she says yes. 

Only she doesn’t say “yes”, exactly. She says “of course”.   
Of course, she has a mother. Who does not have a mother? How fucked up do you have to be to not have a mother? Or to hate her? (Or to secretly still love her enough to let it ruin your life?)    
And he wonders why her. How is it that she loves her mother- that she gets a loving mother? How is that she has no hurdles for making friends, like inevitably drawing them toward their own death or worse, toward the undeath of becoming something else? And yet the Lonely choses  _ her _ . She is lonelier than  _ him _ .   
It’s easier to think like that, even while helping her to survive it, even then, it’s easier. Because otherwise he’ll have to think thoughts that are actually real. Because if it wasn’t the One Alone that chose him, than the empty must have been all his own, and who is stupid enough, in a world full of gods out to feed on your soul, to be your own reason to be miserable.    
He was raised better. He raised himself. He should know better.    
“Of course”, she loves her mother. And if they’re lucky, it might even be enough to save her. 

* * *

It hu-.

It hur-. 

It can not hurt. It can not hurt, because there is no physical form to be hurt.    
It can not hurt, because logic says it is impos-. It would be unlikely to be able to hurt, when he does not have a body, and his soul is made of paper.

Gerry can not be tired. He can not feel the exhaustion down to his bones, and he can not want to throw up a little every time he is summoned to identify the Monster of the Week for the people who are barely human themselves. 

Gerry has discovered that “can not” and “does not” are two different things.    
The sharp pages of a non-living brain slice into his mind. They leave papercuts wherever his thoughts become too complicated- too alive, for something so dry to hold them. 

It’s not unlike growing up with people who can watch him always and anywhere, ready to redirect, intervene, or simply to watch and see if their curiosity ever is greater than their concern- ready to mold him into something else.   
It takes some adjusting to, but it’s not like Gerry has a choice. He doesn’t have much better to do anyway. 

In the end, he asks for the page to be burned. Maybe that’s what friendship is like. Someone to help and be helped by. Someone to be (slightly less) miserable with, together.    
When Jon rips out the page, it can not hurt.    
He wonders, in stilted, stiff thoughts, if making this deal is the same as suicide. He can not hope so. But then again, can and does are often two different things. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> woop woop, you made it! [confetti!]


End file.
